Patience Was Never His Strong Suit
by sudipal
Summary: Summary: "As we learn about each other, so we learn about ourselves." Contains references to both Classic and New Who, but still understandable if you're not familiar with the older episodes.
1. Laying the Foundation

Spoilers: Assumes knowledge of the most current seasons of both shows.

Disclaimer: I own neither _Sherlock_ nor _Doctor Who_; all rights belong to their respective owners.

Thank you to my wonderful Betas, susako and infinityuphigh, for all their help. All remaining mistakes and inconsistencies are my own.

* * *

**Laying The Foundation:**

Mycroft sat stretched out on the window seat of the third story flat, thoroughly engrossed in a book about the Ancient Egyptians when his vision was suddenly blocked by a mound of dark curls brushing against his face.

"What are you reading?" asked the young Sherlock, who was now leaning uncomfortably against his brother's chest.

Mycroft pushed Sherlock aside and said, "It's about the mummification process. Now go away."

"Read it to me," said Sherlock, more of a demand than a request.

"No," replied Mycroft. "This book isn't for six year olds."

"Why not?" Sherlock pouted.

"Because," stated Mycroft.

"Please?"

"No!"

"But I want you to," Sherlock said, starting to whimper a little bit.

"Mummy!" Mycroft shouted across the living room. "Sherlock's bothering me."

A few moments later, Mummy came into the room from the study to see what all the commotion was. "Mycroft, be nice to your brother."

"But I'm trying to read," explained Mycroft, annoyed at being scolded just for being older, "and he keeps interrupting me."

Mummy sighed and reached her hands out to Sherlock, saying, "Come here, Sweetie."

Sherlock frowned at Mycroft, then ran to his mother's arms, which wrapped around him into a big hug. "Let's leave Mycroft alone for a bit, shall we?"

"Tell me a story, Mummy," Sherlock said.

"Alright," she said, brushing back some of the long curls from his forehead. "Which would you like to hear?"

"One about you and Daddy in the blue box!" he answered rather quickly.

Mummy smiled and scooped Sherlock up so that she could reposition herself on the nearby armchair, placing her son in her lap.

"Well," she began. "As you know, once upon a time, Daddy and I met a mysterious old man who owned a blue box. But this wasn't just any ordinary box. This box could do all sorts of seemingly impossible things. It was called 'The TARDIS', and it could travel in both time and space to wherever you wanted to go.

"On one of our adventures with the Doctor," she continued, "Daddy and I, and the Doctor, and a girl we had met named Vicki landed in a very large and very strange museum on a far away planet, and it was filled with mementos of hundreds of different alien races from all over the galaxy. But do you know what the strangest part of it was?"

"What?" asked Sherlock, eyes wide in anticipation. At this point, even Mycroft, who, at the very mature age of thirteen, was purportedly much too old for such fairy stories, had given up all pretense of reading his book in order to listen instead to his mother's tale.

"We all saw our own future selves on display as one of the exhibits. And this made us all very concerned. We then had to figure out a way to prevent whatever events would place us there from happening..." Sherlock listened intently as his mother told her story, snuggling as close as he could into her embrace, feeling the constant _thump_ of her heartbeat against his cheek.

Afterwards, Sherlock went in search of some paper and crayons. By the time Daddy had come home, Sherlock ran up to him brandishing one of the pictures he had drawn.

"What's this?" asked Daddy, bending down to better inspect the drawing.

"It's you and Mummy and Vicki and the Doctor looking at yourselves in the museum," explained Sherlock. "See, that's you."

"And I think you've captured my essence wonderfully," Daddy said.

Pleased with himself, Sherlock ran away to his bedroom to play with his toys. If he had stayed, he would have witnessed his father walk up to his mother to have another talk about all the stories she was telling the children. It could be dangerous if the children passed them on– people might start asking questions again, or, worse, they most probably would not believe the stories and with one slip-up, Sherlock would be made to look foolish in public, becoming the subject of schoolyard taunts. Mycroft had become skeptical as he aged, believing them only to be made-up stories, but Sherlock was of a much more whimsical disposition than his older brother. Mummy agreed that she should have a talk with their son later tonight, but was very sorry to have to ruin his fun.

* * *

"Round and round the garden like a teddy bear," Mummy sang, _gently tracing her index finger in a circle around Sherlock's right palm. "_One step, two step," she continued while walking her fingers up Sherlock's arm. "Tickle you under there!" she finished by tickling him on his tummy, while Sherlock laughed at the onslaught of familiar touches.

Mummy then kissed Sherlock's forehead as the last few stray giggles escaped his mouth, and then she tucked him in under the duvet.

"Sherlock," she said, in a much more serious tone than just moments ago.

"Yes, Mummy?" said Sherlock.

"There's something very important that I need you to do for me," she told him. "I need you to keep a promise. Do you think you can?"

Sherlock nodded his head, but remained silent.

"All of those stories that Daddy and I have told you about the Doctor and his time machine have to remain a secret," she declared. "You must not repeat them to anyone except Daddy and me or Mycroft. Can you do that for me?"

"But why, Mummy?" he asked, the distress apparent in his voice.

"Because many people just won't understand," she explained. "Even when Daddy and I first stepped into the TARDIS and saw with our very own eyes, we just didn't want to believe. And so others, who won't ever even get a chance to see, will say you're telling lies, and there won't be anything you can do to change their minds."

"But what if I help them to see?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm afraid you can't, dear," said Mummy.

Sherlock frowned for a moment before asking, "But he is real, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes, he is," she said. "I promise you that. Now, will you promise me?"

"Yes, Mummy," replied Sherlock, who then shifted onto his side and curled up in his bed.

"Goodnight, Sweetie," she said, kissing her son on his temple.

"G'night, Mummy," said Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock had been standing by the sofa, practicing his violin, while his mother prepared dinner in the kitchen. She listened carefully to the music, humming along to the tune. When the doorbell rang, she walked over to the door and opened it to reveal a man who she had never seen before.

Sherlock instantly stopped playing, and peered in their direction, catching a glimpse of the stranger standing in the threshold. He was of average height, worked out on a regular basis, owned a large dog and was unmarried, though he had a girlfriend.

"Can I help you?" his mother questioned.

"Are you Mrs. Barbara Chesterton?" he asked.

Sherlock noticed his mother become rigid. "No," she told him. "I think you've come to the wrong place. My name is Barbara Holmes. Good day." She then began to close the door on him, but he stuck out his foot to block the action.

"Look," he said. "I know, I get it. You don't know me. But I know who you are, and I just want to hear the story. I'm a writer; and if we sell your mystery, you'll be set for life." He turned to look at Sherlock. "You can give your kid everything he'll ever need."

Sherlock was quickly aware that this man didn't know his mother because if he had, he would know never to make her angry. And she was very angry. Sherlock braced himself; he always did enjoy hearing why other people were wrong.

"Now see here!" expressed Barbara. "I don't know who you think you are, but if I ever see you on my property again- no, if I ever see you near myself or my family, I will call the police for harassment."

"Wait," he said, holding his hands out to plead with her. "I didn't mean-"

"Oh, you didn't?" she retorted, raising her brow at him. "Now, I suggest you turn around, walk down those stairs, and disappear as quickly as you can."

"Okay," he said. "But if you ever change-"

She slammed the door in his face, then brushed her hands together with a self-satisfied nod.

"Mummy?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh," she said, turning to her son. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Sweetie."

"What did the man want?" he asked.

"Well," she said, coming over to the sofa and beckoning Sherlock to sit next to her. "He wanted me to tell him a secret, but I wouldn't tell him."

"Would you tell me?" asked Sherlock.

Barbara smiled at him. "I already have, Sherlock."

"Oh?"

"About the Doctor and the TARDIS," she explained. "Do you remember a long while ago when I asked you to keep that promise about him?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "And I have."

"Good," she told him.

"But that man claimed he knew about us," he said. "Why couldn't we tell him?"

"Because if we let him know," said Barbara. "He would tell others, and then our lives would become very complicated."

"Why?" asked Sherlock.

She sighed. "Because everything's complicated when the Doctor's involved."

"Oh," said Sherlock, though he still didn't understand. But the look in his mother's eyes told him everything he needed to know.

* * *

Sherlock ran to his room and slammed the door, falling onto his bed and punching his pillow repeatedly. Thrashing the pillow did help to calm him down a bit, and so he eventually ended up lying on his back spread-eagle, staring at the blank canvas on the ceiling above him. His bottom lip was cut, his knuckles were scratched, and his body ached all over.

There was a sudden knock at his door. "Leave me alone," he said in a voice that had already started to crack, signifying the bridge from adolescence to adulthood.

"Are you all right?" his mother asked from the other side of the door. "Did something happen in school today?"

"I'm fine," he replied.

She sighed audibly and then said, "I do worry about you, Sherlock. I know how cruel children can be."

Sherlock groaned and propped himself up on his elbows. "You can come in then, if you want."

Mummy carefully opened the door and gasped when she saw her son's scowling face. "Sherlock! What happened?" she asked, rushing over to his side to inspect him more closely.

"Some of my classmates surprised me after school let out," he said. "But they left looking worse than I do," he added with a smirk.

"Sherlock..." she began, but then thought better of it, and instead told him, "Get up, then. Let's have you cleaned up." She helped him down the hall and over to the bathroom and held her tongue upon noticing the slight limp to his walk.

"What are we going to do with you, Sweetie?" she asked as she found the bottle of antiseptic while Sherlock sat waiting on the toilet lid.

"You could homeschool me," he offered.

"We've discussed this before," she said. "You need to socialize with children your own age."

"But they hate me," Sherlock declared. "And I hate them. And anyway, the teachers at school are idiots; I can't fathom how you can stand to consider any of them your colleagues."

Mummy raised her eyebrow at him, but instead of starting a well-worn lecture about the value of teachers, she just poured a bit of the antiseptic onto an old flannel and touched it to the cuts and scrapes on Sherlock's face. Sherlock winced, but he too said nothing, creating a tense silence between them.

"Do you remember those stories I used to tell you about a girl named Susan Foreman?" Mummy suddenly asked.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Yes," he said suspiciously. "The Doctor's granddaughter. Why?"

"Susan was a student in my history class, and she also attended your Dad's science class," she said. "She was a mystery, that girl. In some areas, she was so bright, an absolute genius far beyond our understanding of the world; and in other places, it was as though she knew nothing of basic human sense and behavior."

"But why should she care," asked Sherlock, rolling up his sleeves to reveal more bruising, "if she was so much more extraordinary than everyone else?"

"Nonetheless," said Mummy, "she did care. She wanted desperately to fit in, to belong somewhere. It took her a while, but she finally managed to find a place where she felt at home."

"So what you're trying to tell me is to be patient?" Sherlock suggested.

"What I'm trying to tell you, Sherlock," she said. "Is that you're not alone in the way you feel, but you'll move on and you'll figure things out eventually."

"And what if I don't?" asked Sherlock, rolling his sleeves back down.

"A smart boy like you?" Mummy smiled. "Of course you will."

"If I'm patient..." Sherlock added.

"If you're patient."


	2. Finding One's Place

**Finding One's Place:**

Sherlock handed his mother a Styrofoam cup filled with a dark liquid suspiciously labeled under the category of coffee and sat down next to her in the hard, uncomfortable hospital chairs of the waiting area.

"I do wish your brother was here," she mentioned to him, the fatigue in her voice paralleling her facial features. They had called Mycroft to inform him of his father's heart attack, but he was stuck out of the country on business and would leave just as soon as he was able. Mycroft said he was in Belgium, but Sherlock could hear a distinctly Chinese voice in the background. Even so, he had managed to pull some strings and move their father into a private room. Mummy thought it better not to ask how.

After another hour or so of waiting, a nurse appeared to tell them that the patient was up and they could both go in to see him.

Sherlock entered the room a few steps behind his mother only to view his father lying in bed, propped up against some pillows, with several machines surrounding him, monitoring his health. Upon seeing his family enter the room, the patient reached out his hand and stroked his wife's cheek tenderly.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him.

"Fine," he replied. "A little tired."

"The doctor says that you have to take it easy," she said. "They're going to keep you here for a while."

"Of course," he said, then looking at his wife's melancholy expression, inquired, "Hey, why so glum? Hm? I'll be all right. I've survived giant ants, the French Revolution, and the Daleks; do you think such an innocent thing as the human heart will take me away from you, Barbara?"

"Oh, Ian," she gasped, a few stray tears rolling down her cheeks.

Sherlock, not one for overly-sentimental dialogue, sat down on one of the extra chairs and lifted his feet up so that he could wrap his arms around his legs and lean his chin on his knee. He silently watched as his parents smiled and touched and talked, and, not for the first time, he wished he had someone that close.

"So, Sherlock," his father suddenly said, stirring Sherlock from his thoughts. "How are your studies coming along?"

"Fine," answered Sherlock. What he didn't say was that he found the majority of his classes, the professors, and his fellow students boring. That after so many years of being a loner, he had no idea how to make friends. That even at university, where he was supposed to learn to start over, they still perceived him as an outcast. That if it hadn't been for the fact that he did not want to disappoint his parents, he probably would have dropped out after his first year.

"Good," he said, showing a faint smile. "You can come closer, you know. I'm not actually as frail as I appear lying in this bed."

Sherlock dragged his chair closer to the edge of the bed. "I've never once thought you frail," Sherlock insisted, looking straight into his father's eyes. It was easily the most honestly tender thing he had ever said. Ian reached out a hand to grasp firmly around his son's for just a moment before letting it drop by his side again. Barbara smiled at watching her husband and son interact, and reached out her own hand to comb softly through Ian's gray hair.

"You should probably get some sleep," she suggested to him, continuing to stroke his hair until his eyes finally closed and he drifted off. Neither Sherlock nor Barbara, however, left until the visiting hours were up.

* * *

Sherlock stopped by a few days later to visit his father alone.

"Hi, Dad," said Sherlock, entering the room to find his father engrossed in a book about the universe and black holes.

"Finally," he said, placing the book down on his lap, his eyes sparkling in anticipation. "Did you bring it?"

Sherlock smiled wickedly and tossed the brown paper bag he had been holding over to his father. Ian then opened the bag to reveal a chicken sandwich on toasted bread and a bottle of coke. "You wouldn't believe the rubbish they serve here," he remarked, his mouth already full from his first bite into the food.

"Has Mycroft called yet?" Sherlock asked, finding his seat beside his father.

"Yes," he said. "We just spoke this morning. That government position of his must be really important to have him traveling all over Europe; and who knows what it might lead to in the future? We could be looking at the future Prime Minister."

Sherlock laughed derisively at that image. "And what do you see in my future?" he questioned.

"Well, that's up to you of course," his father said. "Perhaps some sort of scientist?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, noncommittally. Although he shared his father's love of chemistry, he couldn't really picture himself spending the remainder of his days in a white lab coat, and especially not in going the same route as his father and teaching the stuff to a classroom of children who would only manage to forget it all by the time summer rolled around.

"What about something in law enforcement?" Ian offered. "You've always seemed to have an interest in that sort of thing... Except for the pirate years." He chuckled softly to himself at the memory of his young son parading about the flat in an eyepatch and newspaper hat. "Or how about forensics?"

"Too many rules and regulations," he said, picking up his father's neglected book and keeping a finger as a bookmark while he flipped through it, skimming the pages.

"Right," said Dad. "I don't think it's possible for anyone to make you do anything you don't want to... The state of your bedroom is a testament to that fact. What about a private detective?"

"Isn't that all affairs and blackmail? Boring."

"Well," said his father. "You still have plenty of time to figure things out. No need to decide this minute." He took a final bite of his sandwich and then leaned further back to rest against his pillow.

"And what do you want, Dad?" Sherlock asked wistfully.

"Me?" Ian said, not expecting the question. He had to pause for a moment to think about it before finally answering. "I just want to go home." All at once, a stream of memories flooded his mind. "Not the first time I've said that, of course. Seems to be the summation of my life. But at least when I was a boy shipped off to live with relatives in the countryside, I felt a sense of pride in knowing that your Grandad was standing alongside his fellow countrymen and fighting against the forces of evil. And when I was with the Doctor... Well, we did have some awfully memorable adventures. It was even, dare I say it, fun. No, I wouldn't trade those days in for anything. But here, just lying in bed all day, hooked up to these machines... I just feel so useless!"

"Dad," said Sherlock. "I'd like to ask you... Why did you and Mum decide to leave the Doctor?"

Ian looked at his son and answered, "We just wanted to feel normal again."

"Why would anyone want to be normal?" asked Sherlock, looking down to his shoes.

"Oh, Sherlock," he said with a sigh. "You really are meant for greater things, aren't you? Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if you had a chance to travel with the Doctor. You two would have got on well enough, I think. But you're still young; you'll find your place in this world."

"I hope you're right," said Sherlock. "I am getting a bit tired of this aimless drifting."

Ian smiled at that. "I know exactly how you feel."

* * *

Sherlock stared out the window of the tiny Parisian garret, which he had been renting from a frumpy, elderly woman who smelled of sour milk. He had been sprawled out on a worn-down sofa for a few hours now, ignoring his other guests who were scattered about the room and partaking in a selection of various drugs and alcohol. He didn't mind the condition of his over-priced flat; he had only chosen it for the view anyway, overlooking the cityscape. After popping two more pills into his mouth, everything but the pattern of rooftops had melted away into a feeling of numbing bliss.

"Disgusting," he heard a familiar voice sneer. He slowly drew out of his daze and turned his head to face Mycroft, who was peering around the dingy room and kicking away an anonymous stoner who was passed out on the floor beside him.

"How did you find me?" inquired Sherlock.

"Oh, dear brother," said Mycroft, turning his focus to his freshly manicured hands, "it was quite easy to track you through a list of your recent expenses. Really, it was as though you _wanted_ me to find you."

Sherlock frowned but remained silent, so Mycroft continued. "You are to come home with me at once."

"And if I refuse?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and then replied, "I'm not above using force."

"Why do you care?"

"Despite what you may think," said Mycroft, "you are my brother. Besides, Mummy is awfully worried about you."

Sherlock suddenly tensed and turned to stare Mycroft straight in the eye. "You have no right to be here!" he yelled. "Mum called you; she told you he was sick, but you were too busy putting your career first above your family. We needed you, Mycroft!" Tears suddenly began to form around his eyes. "_I_ needed you!"

Mycroft knelt down in front of his younger brother and took his hand. "I'm here for you now," Mycroft said gently. "I promise."

Sherlock quickly pulled his hand away from Mycroft's and sent him a deadly stare, pushing him away both physically and emotionally. "You're too late."

Mycroft went rigid, and then stood up to his full height, looking down at his younger brother with a resolute glare. "You're coming home with me," he declared. From Sherlock's sitting position on the sofa, the person to whom he had previously always looked up seemed taller than he had ever been.

"No," Sherlock stated flatly.

"Do you think I didn't want to be there?" Mycroft asked. "Do you think I don't miss him?"

"You chose work over family," said Sherlock. In his mind, he had won the argument; after all, they had both grown up instilled with the same values. "These are the people you're meant to care about."

"Did your caring about Dad help save him?" Mycroft countered. "If I had been there, would he have lived?"

"No, but-" Sherlock began, but was interrupted.

"Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft explained. "True love does not conquer all, and 'Clap your hands if you believe in fairies' only works in stories. It's time you lived in the real world."

Sherlock broke away from Mycroft's gaze in favor of staring down at the floor. It was true that Mycroft's presence would not have changed what had happened to their father. It was also true that until this moment, Sherlock had been holding Mycroft to a much higher standard. With this train of thought, Sherlock came to the conclusion that Mycroft not only had faults, but was also just as human as the rest of the two-legged creatures with whom they both shared a planet. He felt a flutter in the pit of his stomach and understood instantly that it was disappointment.

Without a word, Sherlock stood up and followed his brother out the door.

* * *

There was a hurried knock at his door, forcing Sherlock out of his concentration during his experiment. Currently spread across his kitchen table were beakers, trays, and various instruments as he tested fungi growth using different catalysts. Sherlock huffed in annoyance as the banging continued, but finally moved from his seat to answer the door.

He was met by a man with mostly graying hair, a bit of black still at the edges. His expression was angry, causing his forehead to wrinkle and his cheeks to blush slightly. "How could you possibly know it was the brother?" he blurted out, sans greeting.

"Inspector Lestrade," said Sherlock. "Please, do come in." He stepped back and gestured for Lestrade to enter.

"Aren't you going to ask how I knew where you live?" Lestrade queried, taking in the untidy mid-sized flat, the unfinished experiment on the nearby table, and the boxes scattered about the room.

"Hardly a mystery," said Sherlock. "You could have looked me up in the police database, or even just the yellow pages. Please, take a seat. You must excuse the mess; my flatmate has decided to seek other accommodations. Luckily, he hadn't completely unpacked yet. Tea?"

"Uh, no thanks," said Lestrade. "But you still haven't answered me: how did you know?"

"Simple deductive reasoning, Inspector," explained Sherlock. "I observed the facts and eliminated the impossible, which led me to the conclusion which I had previously told you."

"Alright, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, "you've proven your point. The others warned me about you, but I didn't listen. That's my fault. But I did my research, and it seems you have a pretty good track record for this sort of thing. I hate to admit it, but with the right sort of training, you could be one helluva-"

"Inspector," said Sherlock, cutting him off, "I have no interest whatsoever in joining the police force."

"So then why do you help us?" inquired Lestrade.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade for only a moment before answering in a voice a bit softer than previous, "I just want to help you to see."

"Excuse me?" asked Lestrade, taken aback by a brief glimpse of sorrow in Sherlock's eyes. He blinked and the look was gone, almost as if the he had imagined it.

"Why should innocent people suffer due to the ignorance of others?" Sherlock said. "I see and I understand; I leave the tedium of bureaucracy to the masses."

"You know," said Lestrade, "they have complexes for people like you."

This remark caused the first real smile that Lestrade had yet to see from Sherlock. It was nice; it almost even made him seem human.

Lestrade rose and turned to the door. "Hypothetically, if I ever needed your help again, would you come? As a consult, I mean."

"Possibly," Sherlock shrugged.

"Right then," said Lestrade. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, Mr. Holmes."

"Goodbye, Inspector."


	3. Dealing with Loss

**Dealing with Loss:**

John was currently out running errands, leaving Sherlock alone to work on his experiments in peace and quiet in the kitchen. He was just recording the results of mixing different acids with skin tissue when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Sherlock glanced at the caller ID and immediately picked up. "Mum?" he asked into the receiver, a worried expression in his voice. She never called around this time. "Is everything alright?"

He could hear the unmistakable sound of sobbing coming from the other end. "He came to see me," she said, gasping slightly as she spoke. "He came to say goodbye."

"Who?" questioned Sherlock. "What happened?"

"The Doctor," she explained, the words coming a bit easier as the tears began to subside. "He looked completely different, so young and tall, but it was him."

"He came to see you?" asked Sherlock, trying to understand the situation.

"He told me that he wanted to say goodbye," she revealed. "And to thank me for being there at the start of it all." She took a deep breath, and Sherlock realized that the tears had begun again. "Could you please come over?"

She sounded so alone. The only other time she had been like this was when Dad died. She was always so strong, and he hated hearing her sound so defeated.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

Later, when John returned to the flat, there was no sign of Sherlock, and a small divot had begun to form on the tabletop due to the abandoned acids.

* * *

When Sherlock stepped through the threshold of his mum's flat, he noticed she had mostly recomposed herself, except for a slight reddish tint around her eyes. She poured them both some tea and sat down at the kitchen table, beckoning her son to join her.

"Start at the beginning," commanded Sherlock.

"Well," Barbara began, "it all started earlier today when I heard that sound, the one I hadn't heard in years. I honestly thought I had been imagining things, but then I looked and it was there; the TARDIS was sitting right outside my home as though it had always been. He was already knocking at the door before the shock wore off.

"Only the man standing there looked nothing like the Doctor," she continued. "He explained it was called 'Regeneration,' something he could do to ward off death. But he looked like a completely new person!"

"What does that mean?" asked Sherlock.

"He looked nothing like the man I used to know, but it was definitely the same person. Oh goodness! If your father had been here, he wouldn't have believed a word of it, even with the Doctor standing right in front of him and explaining it."

"_I _believe you," said Sherlock. And he did.

She leaned over to tenderly hold his hand, saying, "I know you do, Sweetie. I wish he had stayed long enough for you to meet him, but he said he was in a hurry."

"He was pressed for time?" asked Sherlock, smiling slightly at his own joke.

"Sherlock, he's dying."

Sherlock frowned, unsure of how to answer.

"But he told me how grateful he was," she continued. "How your Dad and I helped him to become the man he is now: to stop being afraid of his own actions, to fight against the unjust, and to understand that some things can be changed for the better. Now, how we managed to do all that, I'll never know, but, in some way, it's comforting to think that Ian and I could have such a large impact on another person like that, especially when it was so long ago."

"But that's ridiculous," responded Sherlock. "You're one of the most worthy women I've ever known."

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said, showing him a smile.

They talked the rest of the afternoon about the Doctor's visit, but the whole time Sherlock never mentioned the disappointment that now lay heavily inside him, knowing that another one of the few strong influences in his life was gone forever.

* * *

It was three months after the whole Irene Adler affair, enough time for wounds, both external and internal, to heal. Life had by now resumed its normal course for the boys of Baker Street, if one could ever actually use the term _normal_ around them. Sherlock was lounging on the sofa, and John was sitting in his armchair trying very hard to seem like he was reading the paper, though he was actually engrossed in thought, as Sherlock was able to deduce by the way John stole glances at him every half minute or so and also by the way he obliviously chewed at his bottom lip.

"Well?" Sherlock finally queried.

"'Well' what?" asked John.

"You wanted to ask about something that's been on your mind," said Sherlock.

John sighed audibly, then mumbled, "Of course you-" before catching himself and instead just going for it. "Before things took an unexpected turn," he began again. "During that whole business with Moriarty, you said that heroes don't exist..."

"And?" said Sherlock.

"I was just wondering if you really meant it, is all," explained John. "I mean, to say something like that, you must have been hurt once, right? Who was it? Your dad?"

"My-?" Sherlock started, suddenly sitting up. "Oh, for god's sake, John! I didn't realize your medical degree was in psychiatry."

"I just thought-"

"Well, don't," snapped Sherlock. "You're not any good at it." He then plopped back into a lying position and rolled himself over so he was facing the back of the sofa.

"Seriously," said John, an angry tone in his voice. "We're playing this game again?" There was a moment of silence before John spoke again. "Well pardon me for trying to get you to open up a little. I mean, you've never exactly been an open book, but ever since everything with Irene Adler, you've been even more closed off than before. I was just hoping you'd talk to me." He stood up from the armchair and moved to walk away towards his bedroom. "I see now that was a huge mistake."

Sherlock listened to John's footsteps as he ascended the stairs and then his door slammed shut. Once he was assured John was locked up in his room stewing in anger, Sherlock then rolled around to face the quiet flat.

Why was John so worked up about a conversation that took place months ago? How was it any of his business, anyway? So what if there are no heroes in the world, at least the way John means them? Brave, honest, pure of heart... They only exist in fairytales: the stalwart knight slays the ferocious dragon. Real life doesn't work that way, and someone will always let you down.

A few minutes later, John emerged from his room. "Don't mind me," he said with his voice still tense. "I'm going out. Don't know when I'll be back."

He was just out the door when Sherlock, facing up towards the ceiling, said, "My Dad and I got along quite well, actually."

"I'm sorry," said John, turning to his flatmate in confusion. "What?"

"You insinuated earlier that my father had caused a deeply traumatic childhood experience," Sherlock explained. "That's incorrect."

John slowly moved to sit in the armchair near Sherlock. "Oh?" he questioned, not wanting to say any more lest he break the spell.

"He was a very practical man," said Sherlock. "He governed his beliefs through logic and facts, and always had troubling accepting things he couldn't understand. But that never stopped him from wanting to learn, to see what the others saw. And he always accepted me for who I was, faults and all. He always encouraged, but never pushed."

"He sounds like he was a good man," said John.

"When he died," Sherlock continued, "I took it very hard. I won't go into specifics, though, as that period of my life is one I'm not very proud of."

"No," said John. "Of course."

Just then, Sherlock's phone began to vibrate, distracting the two from their thoughts. "Sherlock," he spoke into his mobile. After a long pause, he said, "Right. We'll meet you there," then hung up.

"That was Lestrade," Sherlock announced. "He has a case."

"Right then," said John. "Let's go."

Being closer to the door, John went down the stairs first with Sherlock close behind him, deep in thought. What Sherlock would have liked to say as well, but couldn't, was that his father also had a penchant for running around and having adventures with a Doctor, now leading Sherlock to wonder if such a trait could be inherited. But, as they both stepped into the cab, Sherlock knew that concept would have to wait for another day.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the chair directly across from his brother, cradling his beloved violin close to him as he held the bow in his hand. He wore a sullen expression on his face and had a deep purple bruise shading his left eye.

"It's amusing, dear brother," said Mycroft, "that you seem to be carrying on a family tradition: Grandad had been MIA for six months during the War, Mum and Dad accidentally skipped two years traveling with the Doctor, and now you've been miraculously resurrected from the dead after three years. Are we soon to expect your long-lost offspring to come knocking at your door?"

Sherlock said nothing, but a hint of a snarl formed on his lips.

It was then that John entered the flat, carrying a bag of groceries, which he went to place on the kitchen table on the other end from Sherlock's chemistry set. "Mycroft," he said coolly to the man.

"John," he replied. "Always a pleasure." He then stood up, clutching his umbrella. "Tell me, what does it feel like to accomplish what so many others have only dreamed of doing?" He glanced at Sherlock's black eye, then turned back to John and smiled. "Well, I must be off. Work to do, you know."

Sherlock fiercely moved his bow across the instrument, creating a harsh screech.

"If you do that every time your brother comes to visit you," said John once Mycroft was gone, "one of the strings will probably snap and hit you in the face."

Sherlock remained silent, but stood up and flounced to his bedroom, slamming his door shut.

John stared at the closed door and smiled to himself. "It's good to have you back, Sherlock."


	4. Setting Priorities

****A/N: Contains a reference to _The Sarah Jane Adventures_ episode "The Death of the Doctor"- no real spoilers, though; "the rumor" regarding Ian and Barbara just really annoyed me so I wanted to address it here.

* * *

**Setting Priorities:**

Sherlock and John arrived at the chemists, which served as the location of the crime scene. As they entered through the police tape, they passed by Sgt. Donovan, who said, "Doesn't look like we'll be needing you after all, Freak."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asked her. Sally just shrugged at him. "Come on, John," he said to his flatmate, and they walked onwards until they spotted Lestrade standing with three strangers, the corpse lying on the opposite end of the room.

"I don't know who you think you are Dr. Smith-" Lestrade was saying to one of the trio.

"Just 'the Doctor' is fine," the man interjected. He was lanky and wore a tweed coat and bowtie. Highly intelligent, Sherlock observed, he hides behind clothes that detract from his youthful appearance in order for his mind to be taken more seriously. He considers himself to be an outsider, and even prides himself over it, though, at the same time, he desperately wants to fit in. He carries a heavy burden which serves to distance him from his friends, but tries to conceal his feelings by consuming himself in other priorities. Sherlock, though he could not exactly place why, was completely fascinated and could have spent hours studying this strange man.

"Well, whoever you are," Lestrade continued, obviously without the same appreciation as Sherlock was feeling, "this is my case, so I don't care what sort of papers you have-"

"Inspector?" Sherlock finally said to announce his presence.

"And I already have my expert," Lestrade declared to the man in the bowtie. "So I won't need another consult. He's a right genius with this sort of thing."

"Really?" the man said, turning to Sherlock with a glint in his eye that denoted a mixture of both fascination and amusement. "It's always nice to meet another genius; I can get starved for company sometimes."

"Oi," exclaimed his female colleague in a Scottish accent, obviously offended by the remark.

"That's not what I meant," the man said in apology. He turned back to Sherlock. "So with whom do I have the honor of speaking?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said the consulting detective. "And this is Dr. John Watson." They all shook hands. "And you?"

"I'm the Doctor," said the bowtied man. "And these are the Ponds- Amy and Rory."

"What, just _the Doctor_?" John queried, cursed with the need to ask the mundane and the obvious.

"Exactly," he replied.

"That's ridiculous," John scoffed. "Surely you have a proper name? People don't actually call you that?"

"Of course they do," said the Doctor. "Practically everybody. Sometimes I have other names, though, like _John Smith_ or _The Oncoming Storm_. In school, they called me _Theta Sigma_. Oh, and a girl I used to travel with liked to refer to me as _Professor_, still not quite clear as to why... Tell me, are you prejudiced against people with unique names?"

"Given who I choose to associate myself with," said John. "I'd say no."

Sherlock only frowned, the way he usually did right before figuring out a complex puzzle.

"Now," said the Doctor, rubbing his hands together. "We've got a dead body." He bent down to better inspect the man. "Judging by the gashes along his back, I'd say he was done in by a Pelhpoid. What a Pelhpoid is doing in this part of the universe is what we need to figure out... Right, so..." He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a small device a bit larger than a pen, scanning it over the corpse- possibly sending off sonic wavelengths, Sherlock theorized. "This man's been dead for nearly two hours, meaning the Pelhpoid could be anywhere, probably hiding, probably scared of this strange environment; meaning we're going to have to lure it to us... Okay, I'm going to need something shiny, a pair of binoculars... and a fez."

"Hold on right there," Lestrade said angrily.

"Yes?" said the Doctor.

"What on God's green earth are you talking about?" he asked.

"In a word, Inspector," said the Doctor, eyes shining bright. "Aliens."

There was a burst of laughter, and all eyes turned to Anderson. "Aliens?" he repeated. "If you're serious, then you're an even greater nutter than him," he said, pointing to Sherlock.

"I believe him," said Sherlock, his brow furrowed in thought.

"You see what I mean," said Anderson.

"You do?" John asked, turning to his flatmate in surprise.

He brought his hands together to his lips, and said, "But I have a question for you, Doctor."

"Which is?"

"Did Mycroft put you up to this?" he inquired.

"Who's Mycroft?" asked the Doctor.

"Be honest," said Sherlock. "He's the only one who knows and who's also petty enough to stoop to such a horrible prank. Because if he is behind this, then I may have to kill him, and it would be too much of an effort than I'm willing to exert... Admit it. _It's the plunger incident all over again_."

"I assure you I'm not lying," said the Doctor.

"So," said Sherlock, eying the Doctor, trying to attain as much information from his appearance and mannerisms as possible in one long glance. "You're purporting that you really are the Doctor? The one with the blue police box?"

The Doctor's eyes widened and he suddenly stood up straighter, clasping his hands behind his back as he edged closer to the consulting detective. "Have we met before?" he asked, peering towards Sherlock, as though the Doctor was searching for an answer written in his face. "Or will we meet? All this traveling through time does get confusing when it comes to meeting new people."

"No," answered Sherlock, bitterly. "We haven't." Without a word, Sherlock gave a slight smile that did anything but denote happiness, then, out of nowhere, punched the Doctor in the face, sending him to the ground.

"Sherlock!" yelled John. "What are you doing?"

"He upset my Mum," Sherlock explained, brushing off imaginary dust from the front of his shirt.

Everyone gasped in horror and admonished Sherlock, while Rory helped to pick the Doctor up, checking the area of contact which was already starting to bruise. Only Amy asked, "Doctor, what did you do to this man's poor mother?"

"Me?" responded the Doctor, ready to defend himself. "How should I know? I don't even know who he is."

"I'll give you a hint if you'd like," said Sherlock.

"I would appreciate it, yes," admitted the Doctor.

"I'm actually quite curious myself as to how this originated," said Sherlock. "But there's a strange rumor concerning my parents that both of them currently work as professors at Cambridge and that neither of them has aged a day since 1965. That is, of course, preposterous on so many levels. My father has been dead for the past eighteen years, and, while my mother has aged gracefully, the operative word there is that she has indeed _aged_." A few years ago, his mother informed him of a woman who had contacted her. She was purportedly an old friend of the Doctor's as well, and had done research on some of his former traveling companions. Barbara laughed as she told the remarkable story over to her son, and Sherlock had always remained curious as to the rumor's origination. He assumed that if anyone could enlighten him, it would be the Doctor.

"Huh," said the Doctor. "I don't think I'm familiar with that one. I did, however, used to know someone at Cambridge who fit that description, but he was a a Time Lord seeking to live out the remainder of his final regeneration in peace and quiet. Professor Chronotis. He also may have been a secretly escaped criminal, though I've never been clear on that matter.

"But getting back to the issue at hand," he continued, raising both of his hands for emphasis. "Let's take a look at the essentials with which we've been provided: we have the Sixties, a man and a woman, and they're both working as teachers. That could only be..." The Doctor paused, a wide smile across his face. "Of course, look at you!" He stretched his arms out, looking as though he was about ready to initiate a hug. "Who else could you be? You've got your Mum's cheekbones and your Dad's initial scorn towards me." He turned to his two companions. "Can you two believe it? Do you know who this is?"

"Go on," said Amy, crossing her arms. "Tell us then."

"This is Ian and Barbara's son," he told them, clapping Sherlock on the back, much to the consulting detective's annoyance. "Barbara Wright and Ian Chesterton were the first humans aboard my TARDIS. Boy, that was the beginning of an era! They married soon after they left me, you know, back in 1965." He moved between Amy and Rory, clasping their shoulders, exclaiming cheerfully, "See, yours wasn't the first budding romance in the TARDIS." He turned back to Sherlock. "Your parents- they were a handful. Mind you, the stories I could tell."

"So what did you do to upset her?" asked Rory.

The Doctor thought for a moment, and then froze, saying a soft, "Oh."

"You told her you were dying," said Sherlock.

"I was," said the Doctor in a soft tone. "I did."

"And?" asked Sherlock, his patience wearing thin.

"I can't predict everything," said the Doctor, reaching his hands out to Sherlock, but stopping in the air midway. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have told her."

"There," Lestrade interrupted. "He apologized. Let's move on to the investigation now." He motioned for everyone to follow him, though no one did. He never in a million years would have pictured Sherlock at the center of an emotional outburst at a crime scene (the cause of- yes, but the source of- no), and that evoked great discomfort within him. He looked to John, who only stared in silent amazement.

"That's not what made her cry," said Sherlock, ignoring Lestrade.

"Pardon?" asked the Doctor.

"Why did you have to tell her about Susan?" Sherlock asked angrily. "She was perfectly happy in her ignorance."

"You'd prefer she didn't know?" questioned the Doctor.

"Yes," said Sherlock. When he learned that the Doctor had lost his entire people in a war, all Sherlock could think about was the fate of the man's granddaughter: the peculiar girl who never quite fit in, but was still able to find a place where she belonged. What distressed him even more, however, was knowing how close Susan and his mother had once been, almost like the daughter she never had. Just as the worst sound for parents is to hear their child's tears; similarly, Sherlock observed that the worst sound for children is to witness the anguish of their parents. Although he himself could no longer be considered a child, it still pained him to see his mother in such a state.

"And exclude her from the right to mourn? The one person who would grieve just as hard as I have? Why should I bear the weight alone?"

"Because it broke her heart," said Sherlock.

"And you think mine are intact?" said the Doctor. Sherlock recognized that the Doctor must be feeling his own deep sorrow at the loss of his granddaughter, but Sherlock could not feel anything but rage toward the man who affected his Mum in such a way, despite the realization that his mother had erroneously mourned over her younger son for three years after his own false suicide. She, and all those whom he knew, had quickly forgiven Sherlock, but he understood the emotional toll he had caused in hurting them in such a way. Perhaps his outrage toward the death of Barbara's non-daughter was Sherlock's way of trying to make it up to her? He couldn't decide, but determined to examine the issue further at a time when he could analyze his thoughts more rationally.

"I stopped caring about you a long time ago, Doctor," declared Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," said the Doctor. "I'm sorry I ever had that great of an impact on you."

Sherlock laughed derisively. "She was right..."

"What?" asked the Doctor.

"Everything becomes complicated when you're involved," he answered.

"You make it seem like we hated each other," said the Doctor. "On the contrary, we became very good friends. We both learned a lot from each other and learned to grow as people. If I hadn't met your parents... who knows where I'd be now."

"That's supposed to make up for things?" said Sherlock.

"No," said the Doctor. "But I have a feeling that I know what will..." He grinned and flexed his hands at his sides to show his excitement with his sudden idea. "Would you like to see it?"

"See what?" asked Sherlock, suspiciously.

"The TARDIS," he answered.

Sherlock's eyes went wide. Ever since he was a boy, he dreamed of this opportunity. Too many emotions were running through his body, making him unable to decide how to deal with them rationally at the moment, and that scared him deeply

"Come along then," the Doctor smiled, turning around and starting to walk. Sherlock followed.

"Sherlock," said John, a mixture of both confusion and irritation in his voice, "where are you going? You're in the middle of an investigation."

"It's a corpse; it'll keep til I get back."

"But-"

"John," said Sherlock, turning back around to face his friend, "_This_ comes first."

"Don't I get a say in any of this?" asked Lestrade in an exasperated tone.

"No," replied Sherlock. "This is something I need to do. Look, I'll even let you have Anderson muck about until I return."

Lestrade rolled his eyes at that, but said, "Fine," in a way that made clear it was anything but. "Just be quick about it."

"Thank you, Inspector," said the Doctor. "Won't be but a moment." He then stepped past Sherlock and through the doorway. Sherlock immediately followed. John exchanged glances with the Doctor's two companions before all three left to follow their friends.

* * *

John was dumbstruck; Sherlock, not so much. "Hmm," he said, a pensive expression on his face as he stood inside the TARDIS' main console room.

"What?" questioned the Doctor.

"It's nothing," said Sherlock. "It's just... I always thought it would be bigger."

"Bigger?" exclaimed John.

"You don't have anything else to say, then?" inquired the Doctor, leaning against the railing surrounding the console. "Nothing along the lines of, say... 'I'm sorry for my previous violence' or 'Wow, Doctor. Thanks for teaching me a valuable lesson in forgiving other people'?"

"Who says I forgive you?" said Sherlock in an even tone.

"Alright, then," said the Doctor. He paused for a moment, his brow furrowing as he thought. "You know, your parents and I didn't start out as friends. We had to build our relationship through mutual understanding and respect. I accused them and threatened them, but, little by little, they taught me to trust. They helped me to become the man I am today, and I shall always be grateful to them."

"They sound like really good people," said Amy, stepping forward, trying to help.

"Oh," said the Doctor. "The best."

"Tell us about them," said Rory, joining his wife, the beginnings of an idea forming in his head.

Sherlock frowned, and turned to walk away, but John grabbed his wrist. He paused, but didn't face the others, instead staring down at his shoes. When John understood that his flatmate would stay and listen, he let go, and Sherlock's hands immediately found his own coat pockets.

"Go on then," John said to the Doctor.

The Doctor nodded and pushed himself away from the railing and moved over to the console, also opting for lack of eye contact.

"When I was young," said the Doctor, "I appeared to be very old, but that was just a mask I wore in order to seem more important and imposing. But I've come to realize, looking back, how inexperienced I was and how much I still had to learn.

"I didn't always trust people," he continued. "I had good reason, but that hardly matters now. What does matter was that, once, I was afraid. Whether irrational or not, I took my fears out on the people I cared about, on innocent people who didn't deserve any malice. Your parents, Sherlock-" At the mention of his name, the consulting detective lifted his head , but still did not turn around. "Just happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Coincidence? Fate? I honestly don't know. What I do know, however, are the lessons they taught me about honesty, bravery, compassion, and, most of all, trust."

Sherlock finally turned around. He looked to John first for... strength? Support? Reassurance? He then glanced over to Amy and Rory before finally settling on the Doctor.

"As we learn about each other," said Sherlock, meeting the Doctor's gaze, "so we learn about ourselves."

The Doctor smiled broadly, remembering a conversation from very long ago. "That's right."

"I grew up listening to stories about you," said Sherlock. "Tales of adventure and brilliance and heroism, and, at the same time, being warned to keep you a secret, about the troubles you bring, that seem to follow you wherever you go like a curse. My life seemed so boring in comparison... I wanted to meet you more than anything; I wanted to _be_ you. But then you died, and I finally saw the destruction you leave behind." He had so much he still wanted to say, but, as he thought more about it and as the Doctor's words seeped in, he felt the malice was no longer worth the effort. It was as though his entire mind gave one long sigh of resignation.

"I was right about Susan, though," the Doctor replied, solemnly. It had been something he had been trying to convince himself of for a very long time.

"You probably were," Sherlock conceded.

"Who's Susan exactly?" asked Rory.

"A story for another time," said the Doctor, his eyes silently pleading for him to drop the subject.

Rory took the cue and turned to John instead. "So how'd you wind up with him then?" he asked, indicating Sherlock.

"I needed a flatmate," said John. "It sort of just happened. What about you?"

"People do unexpected things for love," he explained.

Amy tenderly turned toward her husband and grabbed his jaw in her hand, saying, "You'd follow me anywhere, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," he answered, warranting a kiss on his cheek before Amy let go of him.

"Right," said the Doctor, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, his voice much more upbeat and excited than a few moments ago. "Enough of this mush. We've still got an alien to catch."

"You said something before about shiny objects?" asked Sherlock, who seemed content enough to return to the case at hand.

"Pelhpoid..." said the Doctor. "I'm sure of it. They're attracted to shiny things. We can lure it into a trap."

"I understand," said Sherlock. "And I assume the binoculars would be to observe the alien from a distance?"

"Correct," said the Doctor.

"And what was the fez for?" he asked.

"Fezzes are cool," said the Doctor.

"_That_ is yet to be determined," said Amy, making her way toward the door. Before opening it, she turned back to the others, saying, "Shall we, boys?"


	5. Catching the Prey

**Catching the Prey:**

"You're back, I see," said Lestrade, his arms folded as a sign of discontent. Done with their part of the work, he sent the rest of the officers home, except Donovan, whom he ordered to stay until Sherlock and the others returned. Anderson remained as well, just out of curiosity, he explained when asked, to know what insanity Holmes had planned.

"Your observational skills are improving then," Sherlock responded to the Inspector.

"Are all you loonies done playing Martian yet?" Anderson sneered.

"Not Martian," said the Doctor, rushing past with a box of tin foil. Amy tugged at the roll and they each stared at Rory, who looked a bit uneasy.

"Why do I have to be the bait again?" he asked, as they began to wrap the foil around his arm.

"Because you're the newest," said Amy. "Now hold still."

"You'll be fine," said the Doctor. "Don't worry. We'll all be watching; what could go wrong?"

"They always say that in the movies," said Rory. "Right before something terrible happens."

"Will someone explain to me what's going on, please?" Lestrade requested, watching the proceedings and feeling as though the last bit of control which he possessed was quickly fleeing from his grasp.

"It's simple," said Sherlock. "We're going to lure the creature back to us and trap it."

"I'm still not totally convinced there is an alien," said Lestrade. "We're losing valuable time in catching the _human_ killer with this nonsense."

"Actually," said John. "If I were you, I think I'd rather listen to them."

"I think you should," said Sally Donovan.

"Et tu, Brute?" said Lestrade, turning to her in shock. Sherlock and John also paused in their tracks, both curious as to what she would say in response.

"Not at all," said Sally, giving Sherlock a wry smile. "I just want to watch them fall flat on their arses."

Realizing that the world hadn't completely turned on its head, Sherlock walked over to join the Doctor, who had disappeared back into the TARDIS and just emerged again, holding a medium-sized wooden crate.

"What's in there?" Sherlock asked.

"Temptation," he answered, displaying a cheeky grin.

Dusk had already set over London, and a chill ran through the air. Sherlock watched with an eager curiosity as the Doctor lay the box on the patch of soil between the pavement and the building. He already guessed at the contents and was pleased to know he was right, that he could stay on par with the Doctor. For a moment, he mused what it would have been like if he had the chance to travel with him like his parents did, but then quickly banished the thought. He craved independence too much to be able to follow someone else's whims on a constant basis. Also, if he actually had to admit it to himself, he was content right where he was.

The Doctor emptied the contents of the box, revealing several fireworks. "Chinese New Year," he explained. "A gift from the Emperor Lizong."

"What do you plan on doing with those?" asked Lestrade.

"Well," said the Doctor. "The Pelhpoid is in hiding. This lights show will help lure him out into the open."

"So why are you turning me into a mummified tinman?" asked Rory, waving his metallic arm for emphasis.

"Getting him here is only part of it," said the Doctor. "Once that happens, we'll still need to trap him so he won't escape again."

* * *

The fireworks lit up the sky, and the small group of crime solvers and time travelers murmured their appreciation of the exceptional display of colors and shapes.

"Now," said the Doctor, "we wait."

It was but five minutes later, and, sure enough, the group identified a sound similar to a large animal, and Sherlock shivered, picturing in his mind something akin to the Hound during the Baskerville case. Thankfully, if anyone had noticed him tremble, no one mentioned it.

And there it was. It was large, as Sherlock had imagined, with coarse dark hair covering its entire body. But its eyes did not glow red like the burning embers of hell, nor did its face convey the discarded moldings of a demon's handiwork.

"Oh my God!" Sally gasped in quiet horror. Amy grasped her arm, beckoning her to keep her composure.

Rory, startled for only a moment for having been used to seeing much worse, began his role by shining his torch in the direction of the beast, dancing the light across the floor to attract attention. The beast growled deep in its throat, but kept its eyes firmly on the light. Slowly, Rory moved the light farther away from the Pelhpoid until it shone on his arm, the tin foil reflecting a galaxy of stars onto the nearby surfaces. With its interest peaked, the beast made its way over to the display with large paws protected by sharp claws.

Rory cautiously shifted away, making sure the Pelhpoid followed his lead, seemingly backing himself into a corner before the Doctor yelled "Now!", and suddenly the Pelhpoid was trapped behind metal bars and crying out a vengeful howl.

"We did it!" Amy cried joyously, running to her husband and embracing him before turning to do the same to the Doctor.

"Well done, Doctor," expressed Sherlock, coming over to shake his hand.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he said. "I'm actually a little disappointed this wasn't a bit more exciting, something to tell your Mum about. Did she ever tell you about the time Marco Polo held us captive so I could share the mysteries of the TARDIS to Kublai Khan?"

"I know all the stories by heart, Doctor," he said. "And may I just say how disheartening it is to realize how many times I might never have been born."

"Could have been worse," said the Doctor.

"Yeah," said Rory, disentangling his arm from the foil. "Could have never been born and then turned plastic for nearly two thousand years."

Sherlock raised his brow in question, but decided not to verbalize his thoughts. Instead, he turned to Lestrade, who was hunched over in front of the cage, staring at the growling beast.

"Curiosity satisfied?" Sherlock asked.

"Not in the slightest," said Lestrade.

"Good," said Sherlock. "Then there's hope for you yet."

"Is that thing safe in there?" questioned Sally.

"Of course it is," said the Doctor. Immediately, the beast rammed itself into the bars with a great force that caused the cage to shake.

"What do you suppose it is?" asked Anderson. The beast threw itself at the bars again in a fit of anger.

"I told you," said the Doctor. "A Pelhpoid. From the planet Glob."

"Glob?" repeated Anderson. "Seriously? Can't think of anything better than that?"

"I didn't name it," said the Doctor defensively.

"You're making this whole thing up," Anderson claimed. "There's no such thing as aliens."

The Doctor rolled his eyes and grabbed Anderson's wrist, pulling his hand forward until it touched the Doctor's chest. "There," he said. "Do you feel that?"

"T... two heartbeats," Anderson stammered. "That's impossible. How?"

"Still don't believe in aliens?" he asked.

Anderson blanched and silently walked away. No one stopped him.

* * *

All the time, the Pelhpoid continued to thrash about its cage, releasing an eerie howl from deep within its throat.

"What do we do with it now?" asked Amy.

"Well," said the Doctor. "We can bring it back to the TARDIS and return it to its home. Shouldn't be too much tr-"

Just then, the Pelhpoid burst forth from its confines, the metal bars of the cage now twisted and useless. Snarling ferociously, the beast ran wild down the corridor, toward the direction in which Amy was occupying herself. In just a few moments, Amy shielded her face and twisted her back to it, Rory jumped to push her out of the path of the beast, and Lestrade pulled out his gun and aimed it at the alien.

The Pelhpoid now lay helplessly on the linoleum tiles, gasping for breath and crying out in pain as dark blood painted the floor around it. The Doctor ran over to the alien and knelt down beside it, softly running his hand through its fur, talking to the injured creature in a soothing tone.

"Shh," he said. "It'll be all right. Yes, I know... There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Doctor?" said Amy, coming to join him. The others moved closer as well.

"He's alone and scared," declared the Doctor, still petting the beast, "on a strange planet, so very far away from home." He turned to Lestrade. "He's suffering. You have to do the honorable thing."

Lestrade nodded, and pulled out his gun once more. He looked straight into the Pelhpoid's eyes and said, "I'm sorry."

John knelt down and flicked on Rory's abandoned torch, beckoning the alien to focus on something pleasing for its last image of this world or of any in the universe.

There was one loud bang and then silence. No one dared to move.

"You had to do it," the Doctor told Lestrade. "He would have hurt Amy."

Lestrade turned away in silence.

"I think I'm going to be sick," said Sally, moving away from the scene in order to recompose herself. Amy moved to sit with her and to offer words of encouragement.

"What do we do now?" asked John.

"It's the body of an alien," explained the Doctor. "Do you realize what the public would do with access to something like that? We have to cremate it. Then it's about time my friends and I head on."

"Is that it then?" asked Sherlock, his voice was quiet, almost sad even. But, of course, why would Sherlock ever be sad? So, no, there definitely wasn't anything more to his question than simple curiosity.

"I always hate goodbyes," said the Doctor. He stared at Sherlock, remembering his long ago farewell with Ian and Barbara. "Rory," he said, turning to his male companion. "I think you can take things over from here."

"Yeah," said Rory, "of course."

"Good," said the Doctor. "Sherlock, I'd like you to follow me for a moment." Sherlock nodded and stepped forward. The Doctor turned around and silently led Sherlock back toward the TARDIS.

"The interior looks different than how my parents described it," said Sherlock as they both entered.

"I know," said the Doctor. "I've redecorated. Do you like it?"

"It's interesting," responded Sherlock, shrugging noncommittally.

The Doctor leaned against the rails around the console and folded his arms. "So how is your Mum?"

"She keeps herself busy," he said. "She's still teaching and has become quite vocal about helping out with causes and charities. She's even writing a book." He noticed a slight upturning of the Doctor's lips. "I wouldn't say she was one hundred percent happy, but she's content with her life."

"She's always been a remarkable woman," said the Doctor. "I tried explaining that to her when I saw her last, but that didn't go exactly as I'd hoped; well, you know about it..."

"Quite," said Sherlock.

Suddenly, the Doctor smiled as a thought entered his mind. "But... Hold on just one second," he said, turning away and heading underneath the console. He knelt down and lifted a part of the metal flooring, reaching inside a cubicle and pulling out a medium-sized box. "Ah, here it is..." He then picked out something small from the box, stood up, and returned over to Sherlock. "I'd like you to give her something for me that I think she'd enjoy seeing. I found it a while back when I was rearranging some things: a memento from our time together."

Sherlock stared at the object resting in the Doctor's hand. "The Aztec bracelet of Yetaxa?"

"You know it?"asked the Doctor.

"I know all of your adventures with my parents," Sherlock explained.

"Pretty cool to know your Mum was once mistaken for the reincarnation of an Aztec high priest and your Dad has been knighted by Richard the Lionheart, eh?"

"Not so much when you can't tell anybody," said Sherlock.

"I suppose that's true," said the Doctor, trying to show Sherlock an apologetic face, and Sherlock wondered if he had much practice in this area.

"It's all fine," said Sherlock, mimicking what he believed John would do in such circumstances. He then took the bracelet from the Doctor and placed it in his inside coat pocket for safe keeping.

"Tell her that I've never forgotten her," said the Doctor. "And I still keep her lessons of trust and respect close to my hearts."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "About that... You have two?"

"Time Lord anatomy," he explained.

"Doctor," said Sherlock, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd love to get you on an exam table one day."

"Not the first time someone's said that to me," said the Doctor. As an afterthought he added, "Probably won't be the last."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door, and Amy entered the TARDIS, followed by Rory. "Sorry to interrupt," said Amy.

"I should be getting back to the others, anyway," said Sherlock. "Goodbye, Doctor." He smiled and extended his hand for the Doctor to shake.

"Maybe we'll run into each other again someday," the Doctor offered.

"I do hope so," replied Sherlock.

He then turned to Amy and Rory. "Take good care of him," he said, indicating the Doctor.

"Always," said Amy. She leaned in to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek. When she pulled away, Sherlock stared at her with curious regard. "I know what it was like," she informed the consulting detective. "Waiting for him, I mean. I'm glad you got to meet him."

"Thank you," he told her. He then shook Rory's hand as well, took one final glance around, and left the TARDIS.

When he was outside, he turned around and paused. There was one more thing he wanted to see. After a few moments, he heard a whooshing sound and a gust a wind whirled about him. He watched as the fantastical blue box disappeared before his eyes.

Sherlock grinned to himself and hummed happily as he made his way to return to the others who were still waiting for him.

"Are they gone?" asked John, who was already walking down the sidewalk in search of his flatmate, when he spotted Sherlock alone and appearing strangely content.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"Will we ever see them again?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Sherlock. Dawn was breaking as they reached the main road, and Sherlock hailed a cab. "But won't that be an interesting day?"


	6. Epilogue

A/N: Thanks for reading everyone! I had worked on this for almost a year before posting, so reviews would be especially appreciated. Hope you enjoyed!

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**Epilogue:**

"Sherlock?" said Barbara as she opened the front door. "Isn't this a surprise." He kissed her on the cheek, and she beckoned him inside. "Tea? I've just boiled the water."

"Please," he said, sitting down by the kitchen table.

"You always call," she mentioned, sitting opposite him. "What's the occasion?"

"I ran into an old friend of yours recently," said Sherlock.

"Oh?" she asked, taking a sip from her mug.

"He wanted me to give you something," he told her. He reached into his coat and placed a golden snake-shaped bracelet on the table. Barbara froze, placed her mug down, and picked up the piece of jewelry.

"He's alive," said Barbara, lightly tracing the ornamentation with her fingers, and Sherlock couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement.

"Very much so," said Sherlock.

"And is he happy?" she asked.

"He seemed to be," said Sherlock.

"Good," Barbara responded. She then slipped on the bracelet and extended her arm to test how it looked and felt on her, remembering long ago moments that were never quite forgotten.

"Tell me the story," said Sherlock.

Barbara smiled. "Well," she said. "Once upon a time, your Dad and I met a mysterious old man who owned a blue box. But this wasn't just any ordinary box. This box could do all sorts of seemingly impossible things. It was called 'The TARDIS', and it could travel in both time and space to wherever you wanted to go..."


End file.
